ak for him.

Madame Ferailleur took it, tore the envelope open, and read: "Forgive
me--I'm about to die. It must be so. I cannot survive dishonor; and I am
dishonored."

"Dishonored!--you!" exclaimed the heartbroken mother. "My God! what does
this mean? Speak. I implore you: tell me all--you must. I command you to
do so. I command you!"

He complied with this at once supplicating and imperious behest, and
related in a despairing voice the events which had wrought his woe. He
did not omit a single particular, but tried rather to exaggerate than
palliate the horrors of his situation. Perhaps he found a strange
satisfaction in proving to himself that there was no hope left; possibly
he believed his mother would say: "Yes, you are right; and death is your
only refuge!"

As Madame Ferailleur listened, however, her eyes dilated with fear and
horror, and she scarcely realized whether she were awake or in the
midst of some frightful dream. For this was one of those unexpected
catastrophes which are beyond the range of human foresight or even
imagination, and which her mind could scarcely conceive or admit. But
SHE did not doubt him, even though his friends had doubted him. Indeed,
if he had himself told her that he was guilty of cheating at cards,
she would have refused to believe him. When his story was ended,
she exclaimed: "And you wished to kill yourself? Did you not think,
senseless boy, that your death would give an appearance of truth to this
vile calumny?"

With a mother's wonderful, sublime instinct, she had found the most
powerful reason that could be urged to induce Pascal to live. "Did you
not feel, my son, that it showed a lack of courage on your part to brand
yourself and your name with eternal infamy, in order to escape your
present sufferings? This thought ought to have stayed your hand. An
honest name is a sacred trust which no one has a right to abuse. Your
father bequeathed it to you, pure and untarnished, and so you must
preserve it. If others try to cover it with opprobrium, you must live to
defend it."

He lowered his head despondently, and in a tone of profound
discouragement, he replied: "But what can I do? How can I escape from
the web which has been woven around me with such fiendish cunning? If I
had possessed my usual presence of mind at the moment of the accusation,
I might have defended and justified myself, perhaps. But now the
misfortune is irreparable. How can I unmask the traitor, and w